


Inked

by OctoberSpirit



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Carlos loves Cecil and it is adorable, Cecil Might be Human or Inhuman, Did I mention tattoos, Established Relationship, Gen, Just Withholding Information, M/M, Not Lying Exactly, Some Fluff, Some Humor, Tattooed Carlos, Tattooed Cecil, Tattoos, Typical Night Vale Weirdness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-15
Updated: 2013-12-15
Packaged: 2018-01-04 16:46:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1083330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OctoberSpirit/pseuds/OctoberSpirit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carlos takes a weekend trip to get some work done on his tattoo. He...sort of tells Cecil. </p>
<p>Sort of. Mostly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inked

It starts with a conversation.

If he’s honest, Carlos is kind of cagey, looping words between faux-thoughtful pauses and presenting Cecil with strategic distractions. It all sounds—he hopes—like verbal meandering, an idle thought that just popped into his head. In reality, there’s a script many hours in the making. Carlos is not a natural wordsmith, not like Cecil, but he’s spent enough time in higher education to have mastered the fine, ancient art of bullshit. 

Admittedly, this is the most delicate execution of the art to date, meted out between well-timed snuggles.

“I didn’t know you had a tattoo,” Cecil murmurs, his own laid out in full effect across his arms, his back, his torso. Carlos traces a line of them reverently, observing their tremors beneath his touch. They are impossible to describe; impossible overall. Impossible like so many glorious things about Cecil.

Carlos takes Cecil’s hand and kisses his knuckles. “It’s very discreet. It’s meant to be personal.”

“You’d just think I’d have noticed. You know, considering.” He gestures abstractly, and Carlos grins, his lips still pressed to the back of Cecil’s hand. 

“Very discreet,” he repeats, for emphasis. “You’re not the only one with secrets, Mr Palmer.” He leans back in order to thread their fingers, running his free hand through his hair. Cecil makes a small wobbly sound, just as Carlos has come to expect; today, though, the motion holds certain subtleties. Carlos swallows a lump of unease.

Or guilt, he supposes. It’s probably guilt.

“Anyway,” says Carlos, a trifle too forcefully, his thumb brushing Cecil’s warm, ink-swirled skin. “I don’t add to it often. Only when something significant happens. Something, you know. Life-changing. Important.” He swallows, his eyes on Cecil’s shoulder. “It’s…I don’t know. It’s how I acknowledge it.”

Cecil shifts across Carlos’ chest, trying to catch his gaze again. Curiosity settles in the crease between his eyebrows. “So what happened to make you add to it this time?”

Carlos smiles at the question, a warm, tiny smile that blooms into something dopey and helpless, that makes him hide his face in Cecil’s neck. “What do you think?” he murmurs, blushing, the heat of it warming Cecil’s skin.

“…Oh!” says Cecil. _“Oh._ Oh, _Carlos.”_

Carlos sighs a sound of fond exasperation. “Oh, Cecil,” he echoes. His voice cracks.

It’s the guilt.

-

Carlos’ artist lives about six hours north of the edge of Night Vale’s temporal influence. It’s kind of a trip, but he can’t imagine the weirdness of tattooing in Night Vale, and Rochelle has a knack for expressing concept through design. As a bonus, the distance almost ensures that no one from town will catch him in the act. It takes a lot of paperwork to cross city limits, and only Carlos has filed for this weekend. Hopefully, Cecil’s radio-omniscience does not extend beyond his hometown.

Carlos shudders at the thought, adjusting the volume. It’s better to know, he reasons with himself. And he rarely misses a broadcast these days.

As Carlos hits the freeway, Cecil bemoans his tragic loss, waxing poetic on love and distance while making a weekend sound like eternity. He’s actually counting it down by the minute, updating his listeners every so often on how long they’ll be waiting for Carlos to return. “Absence makes the heart grow fonder,” says Cecil, “but just how fond can one person grow before the fondness—and the absence—consume? Dear, sweet Carlos! We can only hope that he returns before the heart overflows and _devours_ us all.” Cecil pauses, weighting the silence by letting it stretch just a moment too long. “And now, sports!”

Carlos chuckles, shaking his head. _Cecil._

The guilt perks up at the shape of Cecil’s name, curling itself around the syllables. Fidgeting, Carlos squashes it back. “I’m doing this because I love him. It’s only temporary. Quit thinking about it.”

Wind whips through the windows; heat shimmers from the asphalt. Carlos stubbornly cranks up the radio. 

Cecil’s voice keeps him company through the end of the broadcast, much further than the signal should have carried from the tower. Just another quirk of blurred science in Night Vale. Or perhaps, in this case, of Cecil himself. Carlos smiles at the thought as the show closes out, dropping the volume without changing the station. There’s something comforting in the hum of the static.

-

Rochelle, as always, does not disappoint, presenting an abstract sketch of pure Cecil. Her work is rarely concrete in any sense, but it always expresses the essentials of the subject, the gravitational pull, the emotions involved. They discuss minor details for a couple of hours, pinpoint precise shades and tones of purple, and then Rochelle goes to prepare her workspace while Carlos goes to prepare himself.

The guilt possesses his reflection. Carlos stares himself down in the bathroom mirror.

“Stop that,” says Carlos, gripping the sink. His gaze flickers toward his unveiled tattoo, a stylized timeline of the people and moments that have given his life shape and definition. He traces each piece, touching at memories. His eyes rove the space being given to Cecil.

It’s not practical to think he’d never add to it again. It’s been part of his life since he was eighteen. He takes comfort in the irregular ritual, in the solidity, the reality of what it represents. Whereas Cecil gives life to his thoughts and emotions by broadcasting them on public radio, Carlos does so by making a record, something private but visible, in notebooks or on flesh. He pries his right hand from the edge of the sink, lightly skimming his tattoo.

“I’ll make it up to him when I get home. I won’t regret this. He’s so important.” Carlos eyeballs himself until he relents, his reflection relaxing, its blessing granted. Carlos whirls, relieved, uncertain of whether Night Vale clings or if he’s merely thinking too much. Regardless, there’s a lightness to his step as he unlocks the door and strides from the bathroom. Cecil deserves a place in the design. He represents so much. He means so much. Carlos hasn’t the words in any language to truly explain the depth, the intricacies. This tattoo is the only way it seems clear.

He smooths his hands across his shorn scalp. His tattoo is bright beneath the studio lighting.

-

Carlos returns on Sunday evening, hoping to hide in the cover of darkness but wearing a large, floppy hat just in case. His preparedness pays off; the sun still hovers above the horizon, despite being due to set hours ago. He sighs and makes a quick note in his phone. The weather gives way to Cecil’s voice.

“Great news, listeners! We’ve just received word that Carlos is back!” 

Carlos chuckles, embarrassed but warmed by the enthusiasm. He doubts that Cecil’s received word from anyone; Carlos has just passed city limits, and he hasn’t seen another soul for miles. In theory, it could have been a soulless shadow-being, but they’d all seemed occupied when Carlos drove past, and Cecil’s omniscience is not unprecedented. His knowledge is often a mystery in itself, one that Carlos doesn’t quite want to solve. The mystery is part of Cecil’s charm.

And there’s only so much science can do, after all.

Guarded, Carlos tugs down his hat, securing it at the tops of his ears. It might be safer to just drive to the station, try to catch Cecil at the end of his broadcast. Otherwise he’ll have to drive through town, which sounds like he’d be pushing his luck. Even if Cecil doesn’t notice, odds are another townsperson will, which will definitely result in a call to the station. Either way, it’s not the best plan. Carlos would rather tell Cecil directly.

He slouches, stomach twisting like nautilus-spirals. His guilt has fled, giving way to anxiety. Carlos taps a swift rhythm against the steering wheel; he hasn’t drafted the plan out this far. He’d sort of counted on improvisation.

Improvisation is not his strongest point.

As Carlos pulls into the station parking lot, he takes his time getting out of the car. Cecil’s broadcast is nearly finished, his voice gone deep and thoughtful, wondering. Carlos likes these poetic pieces of Cecil, likes turning them over to search for deeper meaning, never quite sure if it’s actually there. Without thinking, he touches the top of his head, as though tracing his tattoo through the fabric of his hat. 

He takes a breath to steady his nerves. Cecil will love the tattoo, he knows. He will spend hours admiring it in full, questioning the stories behind each design. He’ll be touched beyond reason when Carlos reveals that he is one of five people who has actually seen it. When it’s no longer visible, Cecil will remember, may trace it from memory in the pale hours of morning. It isn’t the tattoo Carlos worries about. Cecil, of anyone, understands tattoos.

But Cecil, more than anyone, is obsessed with Carlos’ hair.

Carlos takes another deep breath, then another, then charges, businesslike, through the front doors. He nods tersely to a couple of interns, navigating the station corridors by memory and hoping they don’t choose now to start shifting. It is very important that he catches Cecil before he loses his nerve entirely. 

Cecil’s booth is just ahead. The on-air light glimmers.

Cecil turns just as Carlos removes the floppy hat.

Dead air skims the town for a full thirty seconds before giving way to an unearthly screech. Across Night Vale, lights flicker, children dive for cover. Adults whimper as they slink into hiding with the children. A few circling hawks fall out of the sky, and the sun goes down in record time. Even the Angels keep their heads down, discreet. 

Carlos shifts and fidgets in the emergency lighting, his skin tinted lilac by its glow. “I can explain,” he says like a question.

The pitch of Cecil’s answer is inaudible to humans.

**Author's Note:**

> I really like the idea of Carlos having tattoos. And I was kind of mulling over where he might have them hidden so as to retain a Professional Scientist persona in work and academic settings. And then I was thinking about how one of my tattoo artists has this really intricate scalp tattoo, and...
> 
> I just. Cecil's face. _Can you imagine Cecil's face?_
> 
> Don't worry, Carlos will calm him down, and they will have many snuggles later. 
> 
> I like to imagine that Carlos will be wearing increasingly outrageous hats around town until his hair has grown back sufficiently, and that neither he nor Cecil will give any explanation as to why.
> 
> I am on le tumblr at octoberspirit.tumblr.com if you'd like to tumbl with me.


End file.
